


Obvious

by emungere



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place 2006ish when Roger was winning everything in sight and Rafa was (if possible) ever more starry-eyed about him than he is now, but none of these matches are actual matches that they played in real life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obvious

**Author's Note:**

> The events of this story are entirely fictional. 
> 
> Thanks to louiselux and justblue0162 for the beta.

Rafa watched Roger Federer walk out of the locker room, steps long and light, on his way to face off with Andy Murray. Maybe Rafa watched a little too long. Roger looked good from the back.

"Do you think he _likes me?_ " Feli and Tommy chorused behind him. 

Rafa blushed and turned on them, whipping his towel at Feli's head. "You're never going to let that go! It was one time! And I didn't mean it like--like--"

Feli clasped his hands to his heart and put on a starstruck face. Tommy faked a swoon.

"I hate you both so much."

Tommy, always kinder, patted his shoulder. "He does like you, you know. You're his favorite."

Rafa shook his head, possibly blushing still more and hating every single one of his capillaries for betraying him like this. "He's just a nice guy."

"Yeah, but also no," Feli said. "Nice in a distant kind of way. He'll always say how good you played or whatever, but personal stuff? Ha."

"He says stuff." Rafa frowned. "Some stuff."

"Because he _likes_ you," Feli sing-songed.

Rafa glared at him. Feli dumped the towel over Rafa's head.

"Go get changed, wonder boy."

Rafa rubbed at his hair and went to get changed. When he got his pants on, he found his phone still in the pocket with a new text. It was from Roger. _I saw your game. Beautiful._

Rafa just stared at it and touched the screen in a completely stupid way. When he heard Feli and Tommy coming, he put it away fast.

He didn't have a chance to answer it until much later. Feli and Tommy dragged him out to dinner and then to some weird bar where you sat on cushions on the floor and everything was flooded in blue light and the music was so loud he couldn't hear what anyone was saying. He spent the whole time thinking about Roger's text message and Roger's match that he hadn't been able to stay for.

Roger had won, of course. Tomorrow he played the other Andy, and Rafa played Novak, and the day after that was the final. Rafa crossed his toes inside his shoe and wished to be playing Roger in the final on Sunday. He wished it so hard that apparently something showed on his face.

Feli leaned over to shout in his ear, "Are you going to puke?"

"I'm going back to the hotel!" Rafa shouted back.

Feli nodded. Tommy possibly didn't even notice. There was a girl in his lap.

Back in his room, Rafa looked at the text again. It was--it was just-- Well. It was Roger Federer being nice to him, probably, because that was what Roger did. Still, Rafa thought that _beautiful_ was maybe more than just him being nice. And Roger had watched him play, on purpose. And--

Rafa put the phone on his bed and went to brush his teeth until he calmed down. They were very clean when he was done.

He typed out _Thank you_ in reply, with about a billion little smiley faces. After he hit send, he wondered if Roger would even remember what the thanks were for.

Just as he was climbing into bed, he got a reply: _Thank you for playing so well. See you on Sunday, yes?_

In that moment, Rafa was totally sure he would. He would beat Novak, he would make the final, and maybe he would even beat Roger. That last part still felt a little weird to think and maybe always would, but he knew he couldn't let it get to him. It was no good walking into a match already thinking how bad the other guy was going to crush you.

He pulled out his notebook of English words and phrases that Benito and the Andys and Blake had helped him put together. He was getting better. It helped hearing everyone speak it, even if he didn't catch all the words.

Some smartass had added a phrase at the bottom: _Oh, Rogi, you're my hero!_ It was translated into English and German, both. Rafa scribbled it out hard, until not a letter was visible. He wasn't that obvious, was he? Maybe he was.

Roger was _so good_. Perfect. There weren't any other words.

Rafa watched the last set of Roger's match on Youtube while he looked over his word list, and then he turned out the lights.

And then he sat up and switched them back on, because Roger's text had, after all, ended in a question, even if it was maybe a rhetorical one.

He wrote back: _I hope so, for sure._

_Good night_ , Roger wrote back.

_Sleep well, Rogelio._ He looked at that a second before he sent it, almost changed it to Roger, and then didn't. He remembered Tommy saying he was Roger's favorite. Maybe he could get away with this.

***

Saturday's match with Novak went on for hours, so long Rafa couldn't think what time it must be, so long it was getting dark. All he could see was Novak's face across the net and the blur of his racket and the streak of the ball through the failing light.

When Rafa won, he couldn't manage much in the way of victory cheer. He hugged Novak at the net, got a hard pat on the back, and they both leaned into each other for a second.

"Fuck, I'm hungry," Novak said.

Rafa grinned. "Me too."

In the locker room, Rafa lay down on a bench, feet on the floor, banana clasped to his chest. He meant to sit up and eat it, but it seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Roger's face loomed into view. "Hello, there."

"Ohh. Hey. Hi! You're here."

"I am." The corner of Roger's mouth curled up, and he he straddled the bench to sit with his knees about half an inch from Rafa's. "Aren't you going to eat that?"

"Oh. Yeah." Rafa sat up. It put him very close to Roger, who was leaning forward, hands clasped between his legs. Rafa peeled down his banana, took a bite, and made a face. "I like them more ripe, you know? With spots. But then they get all mushed in the bag. Uh." He glanced at Roger. That was surely the stupidest thing he'd ever said to him.

But Roger was smiling. "Yeah. Me too. It is a problem."

Rafa grinned at him around a mouth full of banana.

"It was a good game," Roger said. "I saw almost the whole thing. You both played well."

"Yeah, Novak, he's a tough guy to beat. Not as tough as you maybe, but you play so different."

"I do?" Roger looked surprised at that, which was just plain odd.

"Of course. Different from everyone. More special. More--" He shook his head. "I don't know the right words, even in Spanish."

"Ah. Thank you." Roger looked down at his hands. There was a faint smile on his lips and maybe a touch of color on his cheeks. His hair curled softly over his forehead.

Rafa paused in mid-bite. Just-- _perfect_.

"Do you know--" Roger started, and then looked up and caught the tail end of Rafa's look.

"What?"

"No, no. I'll ask tomorrow, after the final."

"Hey, no. What?"

"I don't want to mess you up."

"Roger! Now you have to tell me!"

Roger chuckled, soft and warm. "What was it you called me last night? Rogelio?"

"The G is like English H, but yeah. Uh. It is okay?"

"It's okay. I like it. Sounds nice, you know?"

"I think so too."

"Anyway. I should get going." Roger touched his knee briefly and stood. "Tell Novak good game for me when he gets out of the showers. See you tomorrow."

And then he was gone, and Rafa realized he'd never asked him whatever it was. Did he know _what?_ Dammit. Maybe it was on purpose to distract him. That's what Toni would say probably. But Roger wasn't like that.

***

Rafa cooked that night, just pasta and shrimp and some garlic bread. Everyone complained about it, and everyone had seconds. It was nice that some things always stayed the same.

He wondered if Roger could cook, and that brought back to mind Roger's question. Rafa texted him under the table, eating pasta with his other hand.

_Do I know what? Is making me crazy._

_It's not important, I promise you! A tiny thing._

_So then tell me!_

That exchange, typed with one hand and without looking at the keypad, carried him through dinner. He went to his room and stretched out on his bed. It was bigger than the one at home. He could stretch his legs out all the way in either direction and not quite reach the edges.

_Is this about the underwear thing?_ Rafa texted. _Because of course I know. I give interviews about it. The journalists make so much fuss, is stupid._

_Ha! Not your underwear, Rafa. I promise, nothing to do with underwear._

Rafa geared up for another sally, but his phone bleeped again. It was Roger, again, and Rafa had a moment of vertigo because he was lying on his bed texting the best tennis player who ever lived about his underwear.

_Fine, I tell you. It will sound stupid now after the build up, but do you know you sneer when you serve?_

_Sneer? What is sneer?_

In a few seconds, he got a picture on his phone of Roger Federer with one side of his lip pulled up, obviously trying not to laugh at the same time. Rafa smothered laughter with his hand. The walls were thin, and he didn't want to have to show this to anyone else, ever.

_Good picture! XD Ahaha, yes, I know. Cannot help it, like lip attached to arm. Toni says it's good because it makes people nervous. Not you I guess._

_No, not me. I only wondered, it seems so unconscious._

_I do not think a lot about what I do on court. I just do it._

_Me too. Why Nike loves us, maybe? Anyway. I don't mean to keep you up. It's getting late. Good night, Rafa._

_Sleep well, Rogelio._

***

Their match went on even longer than Rafa and Novak's. Every set required a tie break, and the last one went to 11-9. Roger never flinched, never faltered. Rafa did the best he could, but Roger was just better.

Roger hugged him tight at the net and kept an arm around him as they walked slowly to the edge of the court. Roger leaned his head against Rafa's and said, "You're getting better."

"Not better enough," Rafa said, but he couldn't help smiling.

Roger smiled back. "Good thing for me, you know?"

Rafa laughed, and then they were shaking hands with the umpire. Time unrolled in an odd, stretchy way. They both pulled on jackets. Rafa felt chilled as soon as he stopped moving. His muscles creaked, and sweat dripped from his hair onto his shoulders.

Roger stood very close to him as they handed over the trophy and plate, shoulder braced against Rafa's like he was afraid Rafa might fall over without the support. The speeches seemed interminable.

"Have dinner with me tonight?" Roger murmured in his ear.

Rafa blinked. "What?"

"Dinner. Yes?"

"Yes. I. Yeah. For sure." Maybe he was hearing things. He could sort it out after a shower.

He and Roger walked back to the locker room together, Roger's hand on his shoulder. They showered in stalls right next to each other. The beat of water on tile echoed. Rafa could see the top of Roger's head sometimes, over the divider.

Rafa shook himself and grabbed for his shampoo, which was missing. Still in his bag. "Idiot," he said to himself and started to go and fetch it.

"Hey, who are you calling idiot?" Roger said.

"Ha. Myself. I forget shampoo."

Roger handed a bottle over the divider, and Rafa stared at it for probably too long before he took it.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Roger's shampoo smelled sort of clean and not particularly remarkable. Maybe a little minty. Rafa found himself sniffing it quite a lot anyway. And his own hair after he washed it.

There were interviews, as always. Rafa tried to answer coherently. He was really looking forward to the part where he got to eat.

Roger was waiting when he got out, dressed in jeans and suit jacket, bouncing a ball on his racquet. "Pizza?" Roger said. "I know a good place."

Rafa texted Toni as they left: _Going to dinner with Roger_. Like this was a normal thing to do. Like Toni wouldn't have a tiny aneurysm when he read that. Rafa turned the volume on his phone off to avoid the reply, whatever it might be.

Roger's driver dropped them at a tiny pizza place. There was broken glass in the gutter outside and graffiti on the building next to it; huge, laughing skulls with lolling tongues the color of blood.

Roger held the door for him, and they went inside. The smell of cheese and garlic and baking crust made Rafa's stomach rumble immediately. There was a large, round man behind the counter, with a stained apron on. Roger spoke to him a moment and then pulled Rafa back to a table in the shadows, on the far side of a darkened jukebox.

"The owner is a friend of my mother's, from when they were children. No one will bother us."

"It smells _amazing_. Do we order soon? I mean to say, ah."

Roger chuckled. "I already ordered. It won't take long. You like sausage?"

"Oh, yes! A lot."

"Me as well."

Roger was giving him a look he couldn't quite read, lips in a bare curve, eyes creased at the edges. As the wine arrived, Roger pulled his chair around closer to Rafa's.

"Sorry. I like to keep an eye on the door."

"Is okay."

Roger clinked his glass against Rafa's. "Cheers."

Rafa couldn't help noticing that Roger wasn't looking anywhere near the door. His foot was just touching Rafa's under the table. Rafa took a gulp of wine. It was red, rich and fruity and pretty good as far as he was concerned. Roger probably knew more about that stuff.

"This is interesting place," Rafa said. "You come here a lot?"

"When I'm in town, yes, pretty often. You'll see why when you try the pizza. Apart from Gustav, of course. It's always good to see him."

"The man behind the counter?"

"Mmhmm."

"He did not come to your matches?"

"No, he doesn't care for tennis."

Rafa couldn't think of anything to say to that. He realized there _were_ people like that in the world, but--

Roger was laughing softly. "I know. Hard to believe, yes?"

Rafa nodded, a lot. "Very hard."

"Incomprehensible."

"In--what?"

"Beyond comprehension."

"Oh, of course. Huh. Good word."

The pizza arrived, smelling so good that Rafa pretty much wanted to stick his face right in it. He was glad he hadn't when he took a bite and molten cheese welded itself to the roof of his mouth.

"Holy-- Ah, is hot!"

Roger snorted, blowing on his own slice. "Be a little cautious. The sausage is spicy, too. It's that Spanish kind."

Roger teased a string of cheese from the tip of the pizza and looped it around his tongue. Rafa stared. It was really-- He shouldn't be-- Rafa wished it were possible to go brush his teeth until he calmed down again.

He bit his lip and then took a smaller bite of pizza. Roger just looked good. Every part of him looked good. Including his mouth and his tongue and curve of his lips, and Rafa was starting to think there must be something wrong with him. Roger's mouth had nothing to do with his tennis.

His hands technically did. One of them curled around Roger's wine glass, nails tapping lightly, making little ripples in the wine. His nails were faintly shiny. Rafa knew Roger got manicures, but he didn't know what was involved in manicures for men. Was Roger wearing nail polish? Rafa chewed fiercely.

It was very good pizza, piled with chorizo and some kind of wild mushrooms. He watched Roger eat one bite from the point and then one from the crust, going after it at both ends. Rafa searched for something to say that wasn't about Roger's mouth.

"Why tennis and not football?" he said. He'd wanted to know for a while.

"Hmm." Roger licked one finger clean and pressed it against his bottom lip. "The history of the sport, I think. It's a great game, you know? Long history. It's even in that Shakespeare play. But also--well, that's enough, yes?" Roger bent his head for a sip of wine, and his mouth curved in a smile around the rim of his glass.

"What else?"

Roger sighed. "It is only me I have to depend on in tennis. I can't blame my losses on anyone else's mistakes. More control. I wanted to play the perfect game--hard enough for one person to do everything right. Much more difficult for a whole team."

"I understand."

"Oh, yes?"

Rafa nodded. A piece of cheese from his pizza stretched out long and snapped back against his nose. He sucked it into his mouth. Roger's eyes followed that movement, he noticed, but probably only because he must look very silly. He licked his lips, and Roger watched that too.

Rafa felt the need for more wine before he spoke again. He drained half the glass in one go.

"Easier to lose by yourself, no? Not letting anyone down."

Roger smiled and laid his hand on Rafa's arm for a second. "Well. That too. Is that why you picked tennis?"

"No. I was better at it. And it's more--hm--free? Uncle Miguel taught me football, but he would not be able to keep teaching me. Toni, I think he gonna be my coach forever."

"And that's all right with you?"

"Yeah. I miss my father and Mama and everyone, but my family is always with me."

"Sounds pretty nice."

"And, you know, I can't fire him. So I think he is harder on me than maybe someone else would be."

Roger chuckled. "Probably so. It's a hard line to walk."

The talk moved on to their respective football clubs, to the few charity games Rafa had played in, and to the tennis football Rafa had been playing with Tommy and Feli in the locker room earlier in the week.

"You should play next time," Rafa said.

"I don't think..." Roger was looking down, shaking his head, but he stopped halfway through and looked up at Rafa through his lashes. "Well. Maybe so. They wouldn't mind?"

Rafa had to laugh a little. "You crazy, Rogelio. Nobody going to mind. Not going to mind anything you do."

Roger raised his eyebrows and stole the last piece of pizza just as Rafa was reaching for it.

"Hey!"

"Not going to mind, hm?" Roger gave him a little smirk.

"Pizza is different!"

Roger snorted and handed over the pizza. "Well, you are a growing boy."

"Not _that_ much younger than you." He took the pizza anyway.

"Much younger in tennis years. A baby."

Rafa stuck his tongue out at him. Roger looked back with such open affection that Rafa couldn't manage to swallow the bite he'd taken around the sudden tightness in his throat.

Also, Roger had really pretty eyes.

Rafa bit the inside of his cheek. He got the now-mushy pizza down.

This.

This was not okay.

Whatever it was.

Thinking these things about Roger, who maybe even wanted to be his friend, was--not right. Weird. These were the kind of thoughts he had about pretty girls at the beach. Except not even like that, because there was no girl Rafa had ever seen who compared to Roger.

_Oh_ , Rafa thought. A lot of things became clear all at once, including the pointed looks Tommy had started giving him when he went on about Roger's form for too long. God. He had been obvious, just in a completely different way than he'd thought.

He glanced at Roger, who was running his finger along the rim of his wine glass. It was almost empty. Rafa poured him some more, which seemed to break him out of some trance.

"Ah. Thank you." Some of it splashed up the side onto Roger's finger, and he sucked it clean.

Rafa watched it slide into his mouth and felt himself blush. He couldn't look away.

Roger's eyes caught his his, and Roger's finger slid from his mouth with an audible pop. Neither of them said anything. Roger cleared his throat and took a rather large drink of wine.

"I suppose...we should go?" Roger said.

"I have early flight tomorrow."

Roger paid their bill, and Rafa was too flustered to argue. They stood outside in the cool air waiting for Roger's driver. Roger leaned against the skull mural, and one skull laughed over his shoulder at Rafa. Rafa thought they should take pictures of him here, in his jeans, with one foot flat on the wall just like that. The streetlight caught in the edges of his hair and made them glow gold.

Rafa chewed on his thumb, helping along a large hangnail.

They sat close in the car, Rafa by the window, Roger's thigh touching his. Roger's foot nudged his, and Rafa looked down at them against the grey fuzz carpet. Roger's shiny oxfords and his own perfectly white tennis shoes. Rafa felt even younger than he usually did around Roger.

The car stopped, too soon, outside Rafa's building.

"Well," Roger said. He wet his lips, and Rafa stared at the faint shine on them and at the shadow of stubble on Roger's jaw. Roger leaned in closer, hand on Rafa's shoulder, another on his elbow. Very close. Warm breath on Rafa's cheek. That close.

Rafa stared at his blurred face. Roger's mouth was an inch from his when Roger took a quick, tight breath and turned his head aside. He hugged Rafa more tightly than he did at the net, and for longer. His hand slid under Rafa's shirtsleeve and stroked the muscle there.

Rafa held onto the back of Roger's jacket and pulled himself in tighter. Roger smelled like his shampoo. He touched Roger's hair, and it felt like he'd imagined it would; very soft and springy, weightless in his fingers like holding warm air.

"Sorry," Roger whispered. Rafa could feel his lips move on his neck. "You-- You'll want to go."

Rafa nodded dumbly, not sure he wanted that at all. Roger pulled back and wiped his mouth. His hand lingered over his lips.

"Okay," Rafa said. "Okay. Bye."

Roger made a little sound that was probably affirmative. Rafa got out of the car and walked quickly inside.

***

Another week, another tournament. Rafa was hitting with Tommy out in the bright, bright sun. Tommy's shirt was bright, bright blue, same as the sky. Sweat beaded on Rafa's forehead and stuck his shirt to his back. He returned balls automatically while he tried to think.

Roger hadn't texted him since the dinner thing. That wasn't weird by itself. Roger probably had a lot better things to do than text him. Also, Rafa hadn't texted him either.

They hadn't seen each other here yet, but that was pretty normal, too. The matches hadn't started yet, and they were on opposite sides of the draw anyway. Roger had been practicing late. Rafa was practicing early.

Tommy hit a ball aimed at Rafa's midsection and yelled at him to stop daydreaming. Rafa stepped aside in plenty of time and slammed it back at him.

So, everything was normal and fine, except Rafa was pretty sure they'd almost kissed. Roger had asked him out to dinner, and they'd almost kissed at the end of it, and Roger had paid, and Rafa thought he was the hottest person ever on the face of the planet. Two plus two plus Rafa's big stinking crush on Roger Federer equaled, maybe, a date.

Roger had almost kissed him.

"I don't have to be here!" Tommy yelled across the court. "I could just get you a ball machine!"

"Those can't hit back!"

"I'll show you hitting back." Tommy grinned, miming a punch.

Rafa gripped his stomach like the punch had connected and groaned. He started paying attention.

They went at it steadily for a while, but eventually Tommy hit one out, and Rafa had to go fetch a new ball.

Roger was standing next to the ball caddy. He tossed one over and made a carry-on gesture with one hand. He was leaning back against the fence like he had against the brick wall. The crowd was going nuts with flash bulb explosions.

Rafa carried on. He didn't know what else to do. The next time they needed a new ball, Roger was gone. Rafa hadn't seen him leave.

That night at dinner, Toni gave him a long look over the pasta and clams. "Federer came to your practice."

"I know. I was there."

"Don't be smart. Something going on with you two? You usually get along so nice. Did you say something to him at that dinner you had?"

Rafa ducked his head and shoveled in pasta. "No. Didn't say anything. It was good, fun. There's no problem."

Toni made a rumbling noise of skepticism, but didn't reply.

Later, alone in his room with the door locked, Rafa stared hard at the keypad on his phone, like it might tell him what to write.

_I liked to see you at my practice today_ , he wrote, eventually.

_I enjoyed it as well._

_Yeah? What else you enjoy?_

_Cricket? Ping pong? Pizza._

_You know good pizza places here?_

There was a long pause.

_I must sleep. Jet lag, you know? Good night._

_Sweet dreams, Rogelio._

***

Rafa didn't see Roger around the locker room, or at practice, or anywhere. There was no more texting, even when Rafa wrote him first.

That was fine. Rafa would concentrate on his matches and see Roger in the final. It would be good motivation, and afterwards he'd have Roger in the locker room all on his own and Rafa could get _something_ out of him, even if it was just a request to fuck off. A politely worded request to fuck off.

He did what he knew how to do; he played tennis. He won. Roger won. It was good.

In the third round, Roger lost. That was not good.

Rafa watched the end of the match five times in a row on Youtube. Roger was clearly distracted, not playing his best. Distracted by what? Rafa both did and didn't want to think it had anything to do with him.

_You okay?_ Rafa texted him. He got no answer back. Maybe Roger was already on his plane, on to the next tournament to prepare. Probably. No reason to stick around.

Rafa made it to the final. Just before Davydenko's first serve, he spotted Roger in the crowd. There was no time to really look, but it was impossible to mistake Roger for anyone else. Rafa recognized him just by the way he sat, the turn of his head, the angle of his hand against his cheek.

He wasn't going to lose with Roger watching. No way.

Just once, Rafa thought, halfway through the second tie break, just once maybe he could get an easy final. A final like Roger's, where he sailed through and ever so kindly ground his opponent's face into the dirt.

In the break before the third set, Rafa looked up to the stands. Roger was still there and lifted a hand to him, a fractional movement that no doubt every TV camera there caught and recorded. That would be the first question in the post-match interview. Well, maybe second. After, How does it _feel_ to have won/lost?

"Time."

He walked back onto court. He still had to win.

Roger was still there at match point. Still there when Rafa fell to his knees in victory. Still there when they handed over the trophy. Rafa kept checking, and he knew he shouldn't, knew someone would pick it up. At least they were unlikely to guess what it meant.

He took one last look before he headed off court. Roger was gone. He sighed and signed a few more hats and things. When he ducked into the damp quiet of the locker room, Davydenko was gone already. He had a plane to catch.

Rafa dropped his bag on the floor. It smacked down with an echoing thud.

"You played well."

Rafa jerked his head around. Roger was leaning against a bank of lockers, hands in his pockets, hips canted out in a way that left Rafa struggling to form words.

"You--watched," Rafa said, finally. Stupidly. "I thought you'd be gone already."

"I had a photoshoot this morning. And then I thought--well. I knew you were playing. Obviously."

"So you came to see me."

Roger dropped his head so his hair hung in his face. Rafa crossed the little space between them. He put a hand on the locker next to Roger's face and leaned in. Roger looked at the floor.

"Yes, I came to see you," Roger said. His voice was very soft. "I like watching you play. Watching you move."

Water dripped in the background with an almost musical sound. Sweat dripped from Rafa's hair down the back of his neck. The air was wet and clinging.

"I like, too," Rafa said. "Watching you. Seeing you."

"I didn't mean for things to be awkward between us," Roger said. He was still looking at the ground. "To make them that way."

"They are not. You didn't. Things are good, no?"

"Are they?"

"If we say they are, yes? They must be."

Roger glanced up at him and smiled. Rafa felt his heart stutter. Dehydration, he told himself firmly. He was not going to start acting--keep acting--like some starstruck child.

"And do we say they are?" Roger asked.

"Yeah, for sure."

"All right." Roger looked at him full on and touched Rafa's arm. "Good. I'd like us to be friends."

"I like that too."

Roger took a deep breath. "So you must tell me, please, if I do anything to make you--uncomfortable."

A lot of _other_ things suddenly came clear in Rafa's head. Like, he might have been obvious enough for Tommy and Feli and possibly (God forbid) Toni, but not half obvious enough for Roger.

He moved closer and rested his other hand on Roger's shoulder. "If that ever happen, I tell you."

"Oh." Roger sounded startled. He met Rafa's eyes briefly and then scanned the rest of his face. "Oh. I see."

"I think you see pretty good."

"Is that right?" Roger rested his hands at Rafa's waist. They were faintly cool through Rafa's sweat-soaked shirt.

"Very--very right. God."

Roger tugged his shirt up and put his hands on Rafa's bare skin. Rafa's eyes closed all by themselves.

"You have interviews," Roger said. "Very soon."

Rafa wanted to say he didn't care--which was true--but it was part of the sport. He had to do it. And there was no time now anyway. People would be looking for him.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Okay. So. We could...get pizza later?"

Roger's mouth twitched. "Pizza. Sure. I'll come to your room?"

"Yes." Rafa nodded too hard. A drop of sweat shook loose from his hair and clung to Roger's neck. "Yes, please."

Roger pushed him back gently and stepped around him. "I'll see you later," he said.

Rafa watched him leave and then went to jerk off in the shower without a trace of shame. He was never going to get through the interviews otherwise.

***

They were going to have sex. Rafa was pretty sure about that. He'd never made a date just to have sex before. It felt strange, like they were skipping something vital, even though they'd already had a normal date really. Sort of normal. Except Rafa hadn't known what it was at the time.

He brushed his teeth again and put on jeans instead of the suit he'd worn to dinner. And then he took the jeans off and took his underwear off as well and put on the one non-ratty pair of pajama pants he had. And then he took those off and put the jeans back on. They were pretty uncomfortable without underwear, so he was wondering whether to change yet again when he heard a knock at the door.

Through the peephole, he saw a red hat with the words Joe Mama's Pizzeria on it. Huh. Actual pizza. He pulled open the door.

The pizza guy raised his head and smiled at Rafa.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there? Pizza's getting cold."

Rafa stared a few seconds longer. "I want picture of you dressed as pizza boy."

Roger laughed and pushed past him. "I don't think so!"

"I think yes. Definitely yes." Rafa locked the door with every available lock and tried to search for his camera phone without Roger realizing what he was doing.

"Where should I put this? Table?"

"Is it really pizza?"

"Of course. What did you think I came here for?" Roger's voice held an audible smirk.

"Ohh. Ah. Nothing?" He found his phone at last.

"I didn't mean--" Roger started and then made an unexpectedly squeaky noise of surprise when Rafa's flash went off. "Hey!"

"I post to the internet," Rafa said solemnly. "I can do it from my phone. Tommy show me how."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I dare." He pushed buttons, pretty much at random because actually Tommy was as technologically hopeless with Rafa's phone as Rafa was. He could text with it, but not much more. Occasionally it ate his whole address book.

"Rafa!"

"Roger Federer, pizza boy... Where I post, huh? One of your fan sites?"

Roger loomed up in front of him. "Give me that thing."

"Make me."

Roger put a hand on his bare chest and skimmed it down over his stomach. Roger's fingers curled into the waistband of Rafa's jeans. Rafa's mouth formed a silent _oh_ , and he let Roger take the phone away.

"Too easy," Roger said. "Maybe I should try this on court."

"You don't need extra advantage." Rafa's voice came out shaky. He was very aware of Roger's knuckles pushing against his stomach, Roger's fingers down inside his jeans, very close to his cock. He could feel he was starting to get hard.

"Not yet."

"Are we going to..."

"To...?"

"Do the sex?" Rafa blurted.

"Is that what you want? We don't have to. I brought a movie."

"Yes. I want," Rafa said. He couldn't think about doing anything else. It seemed impossible. Incomprehensible. He smiled a little.

"What?"

"You really brought a movie?"

Roger flushed slightly. "I didn't know if-- I didn't know."

"Sweet," Rafa told him, which made him go a bit pinker. Rafa pushed the pizza boy hat back and off until it tumbled to the floor. He dug his fingers into Roger's curls and pulled him in. It was a tame first kiss, just Roger's mouth against his. Roger's lips were very soft.

"I don't know--" Rafa started, but Roger yanked him in close by the front of his jeans and licked at Rafa's lips until they parted. Roger's tongue pressed into his mouth, and Rafa's cock got a lot stiffer all at once. A moan worked its way up his throat, embarrassingly loud.

Roger leaned his forehead against Rafa's briefly, and then pulled back. Roger was looking at him with a soft expression. He touched Rafa's cheek and tucked his hair back behind his ear.

He kept his hold on Rafa's jeans and walked backward to the bed. He sat down and kept pulling until Rafa was straddling his lap. Rafa caught his breath, cock trapped in his jeans and pushed against Roger's body.

"Can we, the clothes--" Rafa pulled at Roger's shirt, words deserting him.

Roger pulled his shirt off and tossed it away. Rafa swore quietly.

"You should do this more. Practice without. You never do." As he spoke, he ran his hands over Roger's chest, through the soft, dark hair, across one nipple.

"Not never."

"Almost never."

"If I looked like you, I would do it more often."

"Crazy," Rafa muttered. He couldn't imagine Roger looking better than he did right now. It wasn't even possible. He rubbed a thumb over Roger's nipple and watched his lips part. He did it again.

Roger's throat worked as he swallowed. He leaned in, head angled for another kiss. His lips were wet now, and they slid against Rafa's, slippery and warm. Roger was wearing track pants, and Rafa felt his cock through them, pushing up against Rafa's ass. He sat down harder on it and rocked his hips forward. Roger gasped against his mouth and held him tighter, hands closed hard on his shoulders.

"Rafa." His voice was rough.

"Naked?" Rafa suggested.

"Yes. Now."

Rafa stood and dropped his jeans. Roger was slower, socks first, and then trackpants and briefs. Rafa was glad of the chance to watch. He realized he'd been half-watching Roger changed in the locker room for months. Now he was allowed to stare because they were going to have sex. Actual sex. With Roger Federer.

Roger kicked his pants away and looked at him. "You look terrified."

"I do not!"

"You do. A little." Roger stepped in close and slid an arm around his waist. "We could still watch a movie."

"I, no, I do not think I could."

Roger's body was very hard against his, like hugging Carlos, but more so. More naked. A _lot_ more. Roger brushed his hair back and kissed the side of his neck. Rafa shivered. Roger's hand skimmed down his side and pushed between them. When he touched Rafa's cock, Rafa jumped. He couldn't help it, just too wound up.

He glanced at Roger's face, expecting laughter, but Roger was staring at him with a sort of helpless, open warmth that made Rafa stare back, caught. Roger started to say something and then shook his head, sliding to his knees. "I think you'll like this," he said.

His lips closed over the head of Rafa's cock and stayed sealed tight as he slid them up--and up. Rafa curled over and clung on to his shoulders. He stared down at the back of Roger's neck and the little curls looped against his skin. Roger's mouth was hot and practiced and pulling Rafa to pieces.

He could hear himself breathing in great gasps, half-moaning on every exhale. There were red marks on Roger's shoulders from his nails. Roger pulled back and licked at him, at the shaft, at the tip, long swipes around the head. When he took Rafa back in his mouth, he made a low, pleased sound and got a hold on Rafa's hips to pull him closer.

"Rogelio...Jesus..." Rafa bit his lip and folded over still further, his hair spilling over Roger's and down Roger's neck. It hit him in a rush, impossible to stop or say anything. He came hard, cock jerking in hot spurts, Roger's mouth still wrapped around him. Rafa stood up too fast, back arched and hips pushed forward. The head rush from sudden verticality hit while he was still coming, and things went dim and spotty for a minute.

He let Roger pull him down to ground level and ended up sitting more or less in Roger's lap. Roger kissed him hard, stealing what breath he had left, and guided his hand to Roger's cock.

It was slick already at the head, and hard, and very smooth. Rafa did the best he could with the awkward angle, with Roger's tongue fucking his mouth, with Roger's hard thighs against his and Roger's arms tight around him like the haze surrounding his brain.

Roger's breath came faster, right against Rafa's cheek. He could feel Roger's lips move and caught little whispered phrases. "Yes, yes, please, like that. Christ, Raf, your hands. Want you. God, I _want you_."

Roger came a few seconds after that, face turned to Rafa's neck, cock spattering hot fluid between their bodies, on Rafa's stomach, over his thighs, on his own cock still wet from Roger's mouth.

Everywhere they were touching, chest, arms, thighs, cheeks, was faintly damp with sweat. Rafa was breathing so hard he felt like he'd just walked off court. Roger kissed his neck. His heart started to calm down. His knees started to complain.

"Should move," he mumbled.

"Mm. The pizza's probably still warm."

He was right. It had gone impossibly fast. Rafa breathed out a laugh and sat back on his ass on the floor, legs sprawled on either side of Roger's. "And your movie."

They smiled at each other, and Roger helped him to his feet. They took turns in the bathroom. When Rafa got out, Roger was on the bed with the pizza, still naked, fiddling with Rafa's phone.

"Hey, hey. No deleting pizza boy picture." Rafa scooted his legs under the covers and leaned against Roger's side.

Roger laid an arm absently across his shoulders. "You still have the one of me sneering."

"Oh. Well. Ah. Only picture I have of you almost. Real picture. Not calendar. Not to say I have your calendar--oh."

Roger was laughing softly. He leaned in so their faces were close together and held Rafa's phone up to take a picture of both of them. "There. Now you get rid of the other two, yes?"

"Sneer, okay, but I am keeping pizza boy."

"I suppose I can live with that." Roger grabbed the hat from the floor and stuck it on his head at a ridiculous angle. "Fifteen euros for the pizza, and don't forget my tip."

"Funny. You real funny." Rafa pushed the hat off. "It makes your hair all down."

"Down? Like sad?"

"Like, you know! Down." He made flattening gestures.

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to make my hair sad."

"Dork. Start movie now."

"You don't know how to say flat, but you know dork?"

"Andy is teaching me important words."

"I can just guess which Andy that was."

Roger put the movie on and slumped against Rafa's side, eating pizza. The movie was in English, and Rafa found it almost totally incomprehensible.

"The knights who say what?"

"Nee," Roger said. He looked almost as confused as Rafa was. "I think maybe I should have gone with Indiana Jones."

"Oh, yeah! I love those movies."

After a few more minutes of insanity onscreen, Rafa nudged Roger's knee with his. "You were going to kiss me that night in the car, huh?"

"Yes."

"You didn't."

"No."

"Roger."

Roger sighed. "I didn't want to make a mistake. If you hadn't wanted me to--it would've been a very big mistake."

"I want you to. Any time. Okay?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"What, right now?"

"Yes, right now!"

"Demanding."

Rafa kissed him instead.


End file.
